


Pot Luck

by yuma (yuma_writes)



Category: Emergency!
Genre: Angst, Food, Friendship, Gen, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Protectiveness, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 07:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/877017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuma_writes/pseuds/yuma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meal time is rare for a fireman. But Station 51 tries, whenever they can. Here are five of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pot Luck

**Author's Note:**

> This idea originally was from an NCIS Big Bang I did last year. After watching season 3's _Inferno_ and that lovely scene at the end, I really wanted more. I'm greedy that way. Heck, I ask for seconds at dinner, too! LOL.

_"LA, Engine 51. Fire is out. Taking a lunch break on Olvera and Wocott. Available fifteen minutes."_

_"Engine 51._ "

Hank crunched thoughtfully on a taquito. He paused when its steaming hot beef filling spilled out of its cornmeal shell and scalded his tongue. Hunger and many previous helpings of fireman's chili, however, have made him immune. Hank gulped the heat down with some milk and grabbed another out of the red checkered paper basket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Chet and Marco still by the taquito stand, arguing about how much was too much for the impromptu lunch break they're taking. Big Red was parked in front of the dented trailer that used to be a burger stand then a hot dog stand. Now it was painted green like a pepper, wore an inflatable sombrero and was the best place for the present crunchy rolled up taco treat.

Judging by the way those two twits were hand gesturing, whoever won, it would still be too much food and Hank suspected he was going to hear Mike complaining about the smell of the leftovers all the way back to the barn. Right now though, Mike seemed content in dipping his golden deep fried eats into cool sour cream, munching them while perched possessively on Big Red's bumper.

"Afternoon, ma'am," Hank greeted a mother with a stroller from his seat on a sun bleached picnic table. He took care there wasn't salsa or any unsightly stains on his face as he next nodded to a cluster of wide-eyed children gathering around him. They looked torn between mobbing him in all his turnout gear and hat and racing to "Ooh" and "Aah" over the shiny red fire engine parked by the curb.

The shinier thing won out and soon Mike found himself ignoring the rest of his lunch. He stood, his head bent low to be level with little faces, patiently listening and answering questions in a clear and careful voice. 

Hank smiled indulgently to himself, munching on his seventh taquito as he watched Mike scoop up a girl in pigtails with yellow ribbons and plopped her into the engineer's seat. Chet and Marco could hear her squeal all the way from the stand.

Despite the chatter and his men yapping away as they returned with far too many taquitos, Hank picked up the lower toned rumble of their squad rolling up to the curb. It was a sound as familiar as his own heartbeat. He could recognize it even in his sleep, his ears always perking up to be sure he heard two sets of footsteps following after it.

"Cap!" John Gage hollered out his window as the squad parked in front of their engine. "Mind if we join yo—Oops." The paramedic swallowed the rest of his words when he spotted the children gathered by the pumps. Mike now had one child perched on his shoulders; another wore his hat. Hm. There seemed to be a lot more children around their engine now.

"Looked what the cat dragged in," Chet greeted. He crammed a whole taquito in his mouth. Immediately, he began fanning his gaping mouth.

"Didn't your mother teach you to don't ever talk with your mouth full?" John flopped heavily onto the bench. His head bobbed when Roy punched him lightly on the shoulder, murmuring he would get the food this time.

"Just ten minutes," John yawned. He tugged at his short sleeves and tried to smooth down his uniform. "Roy and I only wanted to grab some breakfast."

"Uh, don't you mean lunch?" Marco waggled a taquito at John. He relinquished it when John gave it a hangdog expression that could put their unofficial mascot Boot to shame.

"Uh uh. Ooh, hot, hot, hot!" John yelped as he bounced it from hand to hand before he chomped half of it in one bite. "Roy and I been on runs since last night. First meal of the day. So this is breakfast."

"Guess we can toss out your stew then," remarked Chet. 

Hank frowned to himself. That's right; Roy and John didn't finish dinner either. They had been four bites in when the tones rang out about a sick kid. They hadn't been back since. He scrutinized Roy over by the stand, then John. They both looked all right: a little rumpled and apparently starved. He grunted to himself. He finished his milk because you never know when the tones would warble out again. 

"Man," mourned John. "Guess that dinner's a goner. Shoot, it was good stew too."

"I still got a pot of it in the fridge," Marco offered. "We were going to have it over noodles tonight."

"Well, alright!" John cheered, right before he snaked a hand under Chet's elbow to his plate.

Chet glowered at John when their paramedic tried to swipe one off of Chet's pile. He hugged his food to his chest. "Get your own!"

"Roy's getting some right now."

"Then wait for those!"

"Yeesh, you're a stingy grouch." John blew at the one he managed to get, crunching and making loud chewing noises in front of a scowling Chet. 

Hank cleared his throat. "Knock it off you two," he murmured. He nodded towards the fire engine still surrounded by wide-eyed children.

"Sorry, Cap," John and Chet said meekly. 

Hank suppressed a sigh; he knew the truce wasn't going to last. He watched the two in front of him warily but the corner of his mouth twitched as he noted where the rest of his men were. 

Roy was still standing by the stand, but he kept glancing over to the table where everyone else was. Marco was making a face at his plate and the six remaining deep fried rolls on it. Mike was still playing tour guide to the group of children. He stood, knees slightly bent so the kids didn't have to crane their heads too far back to see him. And as for John and Chet…

"Gage…"

"Come on, just one more."

John grinned at Hank when he wordlessly slid his container over to keep the peace. "Thanks, Cap!" He stuffed two in his mouth and with cheeks full, he looked like a cross-eyed chipmunk. "Mm, these are good, Roy," he told his partner who arrived with—Good God—two more mountains of taquitos.

"I told you I was getting food," Roy chided him as he set the plates down. 

"That's lunch," John mumbled, or so that's what Hank thought he said. John pointed to Hank's plate. "This is breakfast."

Roy scoffed but he didn't look surprised either. "At least I won't be deafened by your stomach anymore." He shot Hank a small, weary smirk. "I've been hearing his stomach grumbling since last night."

"I think that was _your_ stomach, Roy. Mine went into v-fib hours ago," John countered cheerfully as he dipped the last of Hank's lunch into the paper cup of sour cream. He blinked when Chet tipped his plate and refilled John's. 

"Don't want you breaking your patient's bones with your bony elbows, Gage," Chet grumbled as he retrieved a fresh one from Roy's basket to scrape clean the bottom of his own cup of sour cream. He nodded when Roy gave him another.

"Hey, those are Roy's!" John protested. Or so Hank thought. It was hard to understand him with a mouthful of taquitos and salsa.

"Didn't your mother teach you to share?" Chet slapped John on the arm.

No one expected John to flinch; least of all, John.

Chet dropped the taquito he was about to bite into. "What happened?" he demanded.

"I thought you said you were fine," Roy said at the same time.

John swiveled his head between Chet and Roy, blinked up at Mike, who was suddenly by the table. He looked over to Marco for support. When all he found was another glare, he visibly gulped.

Hank cleared his throat. He folded his arms and arched an eyebrow. He waited.

"Aw." John lifted up his left sleeve, revealing a thin cut the length of his hand. 

Roy stood up, peered over John's head at the injury. He grunted.

"Thought so." Roy shot Hank a look. "Last run, the car windshield was the only way in to treat the patient." 

"Let me guess, Gage here volunteered," Chet guessed. He squinted at the cut. From where Hank sat, it didn't look too deep, but it must have hurt regardless when Chet poked it.

"That hurt?" Chet asked archly.

A crumpled paper cup bounced off Chet's chin.

Hank sighed. "Roy, does he need any stitches?"

Roy didn't look up as he pressed his thumbs on either side of the cut. He ignored John's growl. "No. I think I can patch him up at the squad."

"You should have one of the docs at Rampart take a look anyway. Log it in the book," Hank reminded him.

"I figured we'll do that whenever our next run takes us to Rampart."

Chet grunted but thankfully, he stopped poking John's arm. "He should have had it looked at before."

"He's right here, you know," John mumbled around his food. He gulped at Hank's look. "Sure thing, Cap." He grinned sheepishly and slid his basket back over. "Want some? It's good."

Before Hank could reply, everyone's HTs chimed.

_"Squad 51. Possible heart attack. 255 Jones—"_

The two were already running to their squad before Dispatch could finish. Hank nodded to them as their sirens blared to life and they waved to the others as they drove away.

Hank absently tapped a fist on his knee. It looked like John was going to see a doctor in Rampart sooner than he thought.

"Hey, Cap..."

Glancing over his shoulder, Hank groaned

Chet gestured towards the twin plates of taquito rolls abandoned on the table. 

"What the heck are we going to do about these?"

Hank took the top piece and crunched it down like it was a cigar. Marco peered at the mounds. He looked a little ill.

Guess they were having stew _and_ taquitos for dinner tonight. 

 

_"...field. Station 51 is out of the ridge. Cancel other units. Returning to base camp."_

_"10-4, Station 51."_

The ham sandwich tasted like wet smoke.

Regardless, Hank folded one of the squashed triangles in half and chewed off a chunk before the taste registered. It wouldn't have mattered what it tasted like; everything and everywhere tasted and smelled like wet smoke right now. The eggs Marco made for breakfast were only a fond memory at this point. He sat back against a tree root. Shielded by the tree's widespread branches stripped bare from days of thick smoke, Hank considered his surroundings as he ate his lunch.

Hondo Canyon made a strange hazy orange-red landscape in front of him. The red engines on the hillsides were hidden behind the cloudy curtain. The burnt trees stood like stakes of charcoal clawing the sky. The helicopters were white dots, barely visible when the water drops spray up a mist. They looked like faraway buzzards, white scavengers circling what used to be acres of green.

Still, it was better looking at it than to be in it, Hank mused. Stuck in the bottom of Law Ridge trying to extricate John and Roy, there were times Hank thought the fire was finally going to get the better of them. He was sure their tanks were running down to the dregs. He remembered coughing, barking into his HT, asking Mike if Tanker 44 had reached them yet. Despite Mike's even "No", Hank could hear the terseness underneath because Mike wanted to shout back too but knew it was pointless.

Hank coughed behind a fist. He made a face. He thought he tasted dirt from the shovels full of it they pounded over each flame that popped up around them. The heat got to a point John's knees had buckled and pitched him forward, nearly head first into the flames. Only Roy's fist on John's collars and Chet's shoulder barreling into John got him to a safe distance back. 

_"Ladder 109 requesting an ETA on Tanker 50…"_

_"Ladder 109. Tanker 50. We're fifteen minutes away…"_

_"We're gonna need a water drop before that."_

_"Ladder 109. Copter 2. We're two minutes away."_

_"Much obliged, Copter 2."_

Hank ran a hand through his hair. Ash fluttered down and he had to blink rapidly to get the sting out. He located his men gathering by the food area. He studied them, noted Marco was still limping, Chet was stopping occasionally to cough, Mike following behind the pair like a hovering mother duck. 

Thank God, Mike finally got tankers in, kept their inch and a half charged, long enough for them to break a path through the flames. He had stood at the edge of the ridge, both hands wrapped around his own inch-and-a-half, white-lipped as he doused every devil that sprang up in front of them. Roy had spotted Mike first, standing on the edge, barely visible in all that smoke, shouting loud and clear so they could find their way to the engine. Mike pounded each one on the back as he hauled them up and wordlessly drove them back to base camp.

_"...Tanker 4, Engine 16 requests a refill. Location six miles south..."_

_"Copter 2. What's your ETA to the second water drop?"_

"Oh man, oh man, I'm starving!" John rasped as he plunked down next to Hank with a "whoosh". Youth easily allowed him to fold into a cross-legged position in one smooth move. He scrubbed one soot-streaked cheek clean with a rumpled jacket sleeve. The outline of an air mask made an odd white circle on his face. Dark bangs were plastered to his forehead with sweat. He was still covered head to toe in white ash but he didn't seem to notice as he rubbed his hands together over his plate. He nodded to Hank, gave him a muffled "Cap" around the ham and cheese sandwich he tore into. He swallowed. He made a face.

"Yuck." John pulled the rest of the sandwich away from him and stared at it with disgust and a bit of dismay. "This tastes like—"

"Don't say it," warned Chet as he sat down across from John on the tarp laid out on the dirt. He made a face as he pulled off his streaked goggles to let them hang around his neck. The clean patch of skin around the eyes left him looking vaguely like a raccoon. He balanced a plate carefully on his knee as he slurped his water loudly. "Even the water tastes like it." He drank the whole cup anyway. But his voice was still hoarse as he went on, "Hey, Cap, this the worst wildfire you seen?"

Hank grunted. He made a face behind the cup of water Mike handed over before sitting down on the dead log behind John. Chet was right. Even the water tasted like smoke.

"Nah," Marco interjected as he joined them. He wiped his upper lip clean of dirt as he skillfully carried three plates with all the grace of a waiter. He dropped down by Mike. "Wasn't it Romero Canyon, Cap? 70?"

"71," Hank corrected. Or he tried. The tickle in his throat he'd been trying to drown out with the stale, sun-warmed water finally won out. He coughed into a cupped hand, hard enough his eyes watered. Annoyed, he wiped his face dry with a napkin and pulled it away covered with soot. He could only imagine what he must look like now, judging by the owl eyes all around him.

"Cap, uh, maybe you should get some more O2?" John drew up one knee. He looked ready to leap up like a rabbit and bolt for the trailer set up for the collected paramedics. 

"It's fine." Hank studied his men. "You all got checked out?" He grunted at the nods and mumbles. 

Hank nodded curtly to Mike, who leaned in to offer something he had grabbed from the eating area for everyone. Mm, pie. Apple, in fact. One of the canyon residents must have brought over more baked treats to the base camp. The brown sugary sweetness cooled the bitterness of smoke lingering in the back of his throat.

"Hey, all right. Mrs. Henderson came back," John cheered.

"Mrs. Henderson?" Marco asked. He stuck his plate to the center and waggled his plate of cookies. With his other hand, he nibbled on one of his sandwiches. He gagged. "This tastes like...Never mind." Marco gulped down his food at everyone's glares. 

"Anyway, who's Mrs. Henderson?"

"One of the rangers' wife," John explained as he craned his neck to peer into Mike's plate. He wiggled his fingers in anticipation and grabbed the last two slivers of cherry pie before Chet could.

"Geez, Gage, where do you put it all?" Chet griped before he detoured to Marco's plate and took a chocolate chip cookie instead. 

"One's for Roy," John defended. He nodded towards the extra plate next to him. There was a limp ham and cheese plus a roast beef sandwich on it as well as an apple.

Chet considered Roy's apple until John glared at him and dropped a hand over the plate. Chet shrugged and grabbed another cookie, ignoring Marco's grumbling.

Crunching loudly, Chet asked "Where's Roy anyway?" 

"Chet," John complained. He waved Chet back. "You're getting crumbs all over me."

Chet leaned closer, his mouth gaping wider. "What?" 

"Chet!" John threw his wadded up napkin at him. "Will you quit it?" He fidgeted away from Chet, until his back was against Mike's legs. Mike merely arched an eyebrow down at him.

"Roy knows we're over here, doesn't he?" It never sat right with Hank when he counted the heads and comes up one short. He took advantage of his height and checked over John, who was busy defending Roy's apple from Chet.

"He said he was coming. Walker from 18 needed an extra minute with the O2. I thin—Chet, cut it out! I think Roy went to get more food." 

"Actually," Roy said dryly behind Hank. "I went to get an O2 tank." He came around, the green tank rolling besides him. 

"What?" croaked John when everyone immediately swiveled their glowers to him. He shook his head. "Oh no. No. No. I got _my_ liter. You can ask Roy."

"He did," Roy confirmed as he circled around Chet. "He ate some smoke but it's not too bad. So long he keeps hydrated, he'll be fine. Cap and Chet, too."

Hank pointedly gave John a cup of water, which he dutifully drank. He screwed up his face when he was done though. 

"Actually," Roy continued as he tossed a damp towel over John's head. He ignored the outraged yelp as he went on. "This isn't for Johnny or Cap—"

"Hah!" John said triumphantly before he went into a coughing jag under the towel. Marco helpfully thumped him between the shoulders.

"Or Chet," added Roy as he continued around John to stand by the log. "This O2 is for Mike here."

As if they had practiced, everyone moved their glares to Mike. John lifted up a corner of the towel to glower at their engineer. 

Hank pursed his lips and eyed Mike, who was suddenly famished and eating the ham sandwich like it was the best thing on earth. He stopped when Hank cleared his throat.

"I feel fine," Mike wheezed. His shoulders slumped when he heard himself. 

The mask was applied on Mike, vitals checked by John, all under the combined glowers from Marco, Chet and Hank. John appeared to relish the fact he wasn't in trouble (this time). Roy seemed satisfied after a few minutes but after he exchanged a look with John, the mask stayed put. Mike wasn't too thrilled about that. 

Roy nudged John with a toe to make room for him. He sat down within arm's reach of Mike. He nodded absently when John handed him his plate.

Around them, Hank could hear Battalion 8 dispatched, Squad 13 returning, LA updating the entire base of progress. Everyone on the base cheered wearily when it was announced the fires were now seventy percent contained. Sadly, Hank thought as he chewed on his second sandwich, it did mean more ham and cheese for dinner when they stayed to clean everything out.

Hank chewed slowly as his eyes swept across his disheveled group. Marco was nodding off, jerking awake whenever Mike poked him. Roy kept prodding John to drink more water. John and Chet elbowed each other for the last cookie on Marco's plate. 

"Ugh," Roy suddenly said. He made a face. "This sandwich tastes like smoke."

"We know," Chet, John and Marco groaned together.

Hank smirked and finished the rest of his lunch. 

 

"Gage! I'm gonna bury you upside down!"

Hank grimaced but even he couldn't stop from chuckling when John streaked across the park, one of Roy's kids, Chris, hanging off his shoulders like a limpet. They were both trying to flee a drenched Chet.

Whose idea was it to bring the water balloons?

The Fireman's Picnic banner hung high between two poles. The colorful yellow and red bunting swayed under the rare cool breeze and the collected steam of dozens of grills tattooing grill marks on rounds of ground beef and links of plump hot dogs. From the cluster of picnic tables draped with red checkered tablecloths, Hank could smell the melted cheese, the sweet onions and the spicy tang of barbeque. His mouth watered.

"Geez, Gage, you should put out fires that fast!" one of 60's paramedics taunted before one of Chet's water balloons missed John and doused him instead.

"Sorry!" Chet called out. He didn't really sound sorry.

"Man down, man down!" Marco hollered, barely understandably under the guffaws. John was on the ground now, being pelted by balloons from Chet and another fireman's kids. Some of 8's hose jockeys were egging them on.

"Somebody call Dispatch!" chuckled Roy as he jogged over, extricated Chris from John's pathetic hunched slouch, a useless attempt to umbrella his partner's kid from the drenching. Roy yelped as he got caught in the line of fire as well.

"We need an inch and a half!" With a whoop, John ducked behind Roy then made a break for it, cutting into the middle of 60 and 32's softball game. So of course some of those guys gave chase as well. Marco was left behind as everyone took off after John; he was laughing too hard to follow.

"More chow!" announced Mike as he set down a tray with far too much food on the table. He made a face when he considered the food already there: 8's chili dogs and 60's stew. 

Captain Richards from 60's A shift whistled.

"Those them famous chili dogs, Hank?" 

"Eat them and weep, Joe," Hank returned with a laugh. "We're getting that trophy this year!"

Joe chomped on one juicy hot dog. He closed his eyes. "Mm, okay, maybe."

" _Maybe_?" 

"Our Franklin still makes a mean hot dog!"

Hank snorted. He'd tried one of 60's offerings before. A little too much ketchup and not enough jalapenos in his opinion. No, theirs were the best for sure. 

"I don't know who the best is but you all better finish this food!" Joanne DeSoto held up a pitcher of pink lemonade that sparkled when the sun beamed through the glass.

Edith must have finished passing out balloons to the younger children. She came up from behind Hank, a hand trailing the back of his neck. 

"They're firemen, Joanne. Of course they'll finish." Edith dropped a kiss on top of his head before going around the table to help the others.

Hank hummed, smiling as he considered the spread. Marco's chili with DeSoto's hamburgers made a good match. And Mike's crunchy, seasoned fried chicken was sure to beat out 49's in the best food category later.

" _Daddy_!" God Almighty, Roy's little girl has an impressive set of lungs. "Food's ready!"

"You shouldn't be screaming like that!" exclaimed Joanne. She looked torn between mortification and amusement though as the others chuckled.

"But Uncle Johnny—"

"Uncle Johnny has only two volume controls on his dial," Chet said as he trotted over. He grabbed a burger with one fist, a hot dog in the other. He took a bite of burger then a bite of hot dog and noisily gulped them both down.

"Loud," Chet finished before he wiped his chin clean of chili with a sleeve. "And louder."

"You better not have eaten it all," John grumbled as he stuck a hand around Chet, grabbed some burgers and passed them to the guys in the back. "I wanted Dwyer from C shift to check these out. He said Chuck's chili was the best!"

Chet scoffed. He dropped down onto a bench. " _That_ tomato soup? If I tried putting that over a burger, it'll taste like the bottom of—"

To be fair, it wasn't clear what Chet was about to compare it to, but it appeared Mike, John and Joanne weren't taking any chances. Together, they cleared their throats. Loudly. Chet looked about, at Roy's little girl and half a dozen others riveted to him. His mouth snapped shut.

"Oh."

Hank glanced up at Edith's soft exhale and followed the direction of her eyes. He couldn't help it. He tensed.

Even from afar, it was clear Mattie Duntley and her little girl Alice could sense the eyes on them and the discomfort everyone was trying damn hard to suppress. Mother and daughter's strides faltered in the grass and it looked like Mattie was going to turn around. 

No matter how much they say a fireman and his family is adopted by everyone, there was still dread sitting cold in your belly whenever a fireman's widow appears. She was a reminder of what could happen that no one wants to think about.

"Her daddy died," one of Williams' mop top boys whispered to Roy's little girl. Hank grimaced. Joanne looked like she wanted to swoop in and take their child away from the billowing gloom suddenly hanging over their table.

"In a fire?" Roy's girl stared at Duntley's daughter with huge, scared eyes and Hank saw Alice edge closer to Mattie, almost tripping her.

God bless his wife. Edith raised her hand and called out, "I was wondering what kept you, Mattie!" She hurried to them, draped an arm on Mattie's shoulders, steering them closer to the picnic tables.

Hank smiled warmly to Mattie. He didn't think about how Duntley died. He didn't think about the casket carried on top of an engine. He also didn't think about how it was a virus, a lousy virus, that took Duntley months ago and nearly took one of his own as well.

"Edith. Joanne." Mattie had her hair cut short. It made her look much younger than the last time Hank saw her. Her smile flickered then steadied when she saw Hank and Duntley's former captain. "Hank. Joe."

"Mattie," Joe said gruffly. "How are you?" He gave her a hug, his large frame swallowing her up. He stooped down with his hands on his knees, to marvel at Alice. She was chewing on one of her braids. They were tied off with little red ribbons that remind Hank of their engines. 

"And who might you be, young lady?"

Alice looked up at him, hands fisted on Mattie's cream slacks; she rested a freckled cheek on her mother's knee. "Alice," she whispered.

"Well now, you can't be Alice!" John exclaimed, popping up between them. He looked a little wild, grinning toothily with grass in his hair, face flushed from whatever shenanigans he and Roy got into with half the department's children. Chris has his skinny arms wrapped around his head like a helmet. 

"I remember Alice, but she was only that small!" John held up his thumb and index finger an inch apart.

Alice giggled. "I grew up."

Mattie looked torn between smiling and bursting into tears. Edith gave her a squeeze around the shoulders. 

"Aw." John appeared crestfallen. "Then how are you supposed to fly to the moon this big?" He nodded behind him at the bouquet of balloons Mike, Marco and one of 60's paramedics were holding. Or trying at least. "There's not enough balloons."

"I have a balloon, Uncle Johnny," Roy's girl piped up.

"Me too!" squeaked Williams' boy.

Pretty soon, there were a few others chiming in. It was the sweetest music Hank ever heard and when he checked Mattie again, she had stuck with smiling, her hand curled around a cup of lemonade, her wedding ring glinting as bright and polished as new gold.

"Hey, I could blow up a few more balloons," volunteered Chet. He whistled to Marco and passed a plate of food over.

"Yeah, Uncle Chester could do it," John quipped. "He's got plenty of hot air!"

"Why you..."

"Time for lift-off!" John scooped Alice up. He pretended to stagger when Chris and Alice wrapped their arms around his neck. He stuck his arms out and pretended to be some three headed monster to scare Marco off, who was having trouble escaping with three giggling munchkins attached to his legs. 

"Johnny."

Hank caught the slight flinch John couldn't hide as he turned towards Mattie.

Mattie smiled with wet, shiny eyes. But her voice was warm and steady when she added, "I'm glad you're okay." 

John stared at her. After a moment, he ducked his head. He shifted from foot to foot. "Thanks."

"I uh…" Mattie took a deep breath. "Tim would have been glad, too."

John's mouth twitched to a faint smile. The shadows Hank spied on John's face eased back, but Hank had been hauling hose long enough to know those shadows never completely go away. 

"Hey." Roy jogged up. He slowed in front of them, his light eyes darting from John to Mattie. He cleared his throat.

"Hi, Mattie."

Mattie was still staring at John when she murmured a greeting back.

Roy slapped John on the shoulder. He left his hand there. "What gives? Mike said we're waiting on an astronaut."

John rolled his shoulders, which earned him a squeal from the two monkeys on his back. He blinked when even Mattie chuckled. He crooked a grin to Roy.

"I got hungry." John tipped to the side and a giggling Alice reached down. She grabbed a hot dog and stuck it in John's gaping mouth.

"See?" John mumbled.

"No talking with your mouth full," Joanne scolded although she didn't sound very upset. 

"Now wait a minute." Edith planted her hands on her hips. "What about this food?"

"We'll get it, we'll get it..." John soothed. He waggled his eyebrows at Roy. Roy rolled his eyes. He grabbed a burger or two, all right, three (he jammed one into his mouth). "We're ready!" Somehow, Mike and Marco recruited everybody from the softball game to hold onto the balloons. 

"Cap, Captain. We need someone official to do the countdowns." That's what Hank figured John said, still chewing a mouthful of hot dog. He shot Joe Williams a look. Hank slapped his knees and rose to his feet along with Joe. He sighed; just for show, of course.

"A captain's work is never done, I suppose."

"Yay!" Poor John was subjected to two squeals in stereo; he tripped and bumped into Roy. Roy reclaimed his kid and Hank heard something about eardrums before he spun Chris around. Alice was shouting, "Me too! Me too!" and John obliged with a whirly twirl of her own. 

"I wasn't sure if I should come."

Hank glanced over to Mattie. She was staring at Roy and the others taking turns playing spin tops with the children. Someone had plopped a helmet over one child. Others were playing tag with Mike and 60's Henderson. It looked like the children were winning.

Mattie ducked her head. Her hands wrung together, fingers twisting her wedding ring but not quite taking it off.

"I thought it was too soon to come back. I thought it might be too weird for everyone if Alice and I were here. But Tim..." She sucked in a shaky breath. "He would have loved to have taken Alice here." She laughed, strained. "Always talked about Franklin's hot dogs."

Hank felt Edith's fingers curl around his hand and he gave them a brief squeeze. He looked over to Joanne DeSoto, to the other wives who were looking at their children with a mix of emotions Hank knew he, nor any fireman, could truly understand. A fireman's wife was a tough and indescribable breed. 

Mattie laughed hollowly again. She hugged an arm around herself and shrugged one shoulder. "Just thought it would be strange, is all."

"Why would it?" Hank said gruffly. "You're family."

Startled, Mattie looked up but before she could say anything, Joanne swept her into a hug. The widow pressed her face into her shoulder.

"Cap! We're ready for lift off!" Roy called out between cupped hands.

"Better hurry," Marco joined in. "We're short on balloons!"

"Yea, incredibly, Uncle Chester is running out of hot ai— _Yikes!"_ John was too busy ducking a water balloon to finish.

"Go," Edith whispered to him as she nudged him forward. "We got this."

Hank gave her hand a final squeeze. He snagged one last hot dog. He took a bite of it, enjoying the juicy snap the sausage made, the thick texture of chili warm in the back of his throat. He ambled over, to his men, to fellow firemen, knowing full well Mattie was being taken good care of. He patted backs with sound claps, ate whatever was passed to him and made sure everyone else did the same. 

"Get ready," Joe hollered.

"T minus thirty!" Hank declared to the firemen with excited, shining young faces perched on their shoulders with balloons. Like angels on their backs. He finished off the rest of his hot dog as he tapped the countdown on his watch. Warm meal in his belly, warm sun on his back and a warm feeling that bloomed in his chest, claiming a spot for what Hank suspected would remain for the rest of his days.

He still thinks their hot dogs are the best though.

 

"...needs more onions."

"Nah, if he adds any more onions, Marco, we'll need to roll the windows down the rest of the shift."

Hank let one corner of the newspaper drop so he could eye his men clustered around the stove and fridge, trying to make dinner. No runs for two hours (finally), he dared to hope they'd be able to sit down for chow uninterrupted. 

Then again, considering the smell, Hank wasn't sure if that was good or not.

"I still think it needs some oregano," Marco was holding the dried spice bottle, poised over the pot.

"Marco, you think everything needs oregano." Setting a plate on the rack, Roy didn't look up as he accepted each plate John passed him and dried them with quick, efficient swipes. 

"Everything tastes better with oregano," Marco insisted.

Mike's head popped out of the fridge. "Even tuna salad?" he said in an unusually testy voice. Yep, he was still sore about that.

"Well...okay, maybe not that." 

"I didn't think it was so bad," Roy spoke up. At Mike's stare, Roy shrugged. "It was…interesting."

"Roy, the meatloaf you made last week was interesting," Hank called out from the couch. He shook the wrinkles out of his paper. "That tuna salad was…" Hank grimaced.

"Well, _I_ liked it," John spoke up.

Hank could hear the eye roll when Roy scoffed. "You like anything if you don't have to cook it."

Chet grunted. When Hank lowered the newspaper further, he caught the looks exchanged over Chet's head.

"Well…" John cleared his throat. "Chet liked it. Didn't ya, Chet?"

"It was alright," Chet muttered. He still sounded hoarse from the structure fire Engine 51 had been dispatched to this morning, when a wall toppled and cracked his air mask. Then again, Hank had nothing to compare from before; Chet hasn't said much since the fire. The wife had intercepted him when he hopped off their engine. Holding her baby, the woman cried, begged him to save her husband. She had screamed and beat his chest when he was forced to come out empty-handed. The baby she carried was still bawling when the fire was finally out.

Mike nudged Marco. 

"Maybe some sage?" Marco said, a little too loudly. "How about some rosemary?"

Another grunt.

John leaned over from the sink where he was elbow deep in suds, washing the dishes from lunch and handing them over to Roy. He peered over Chet's shoulder and made a face. John kept craning his neck to look into the pot Chet was hunched over. Roy occasionally cleared his throat impatiently before nearly getting whacked on the nose by another soapy dish. 

"What the heck is that anyway?" John tottered on one foot. Roy paused from drying a plate, snagged John by the sleeve before his partner could completely fall face first into the bubbling concoction. He tugged on John's sleeve again. John flapped a hand, waving his partner in an "I got it" gesture. 

"Stew," Chet bit out. 

Chet's ladle scraped the bottom of the pot. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Everyone winced. Hank made a note to ask John and Roy to check on him later when he heard a cough.

"Stew?" The face John screwed up coaxed a smile from Hank. He flipped up his paper to hide behind it. 

"Well, how come it smells so fishy then?"

The ladle which had been noisily banging inside the pot, silenced. "Because it's _fish_ stew."

"Oh." The sink squeaked as John refilled it. Water gurgled, dishes clinked before John added, "What's in it?"

" _Fish_!"

"All right! All right! Yeesh, what a grouch," grumbled John.

Hank didn't look up but he could hear the sink filling with suds, Mike wiping down the table, Roy murmuring to John to pass another plate. Marco was muttering in Spanish as he stuck the bread in the oven to warm.

John cleared his throat.

"So how come it smells so fishy?"

Everything went quiet. Hank held his breath.

"Marco," Chet rasped slowly. "Keep stirring this for me."

"Uh...sure thing, Chet."

There was suddenly a squeak, a yelp (from who, it wasn't clear), water splashing, boots squeaking and by the time Hank lowered his paper, John was tearing out of there. Chet, with a head of suds, was hot on his heels.

"Roy, finish up for me!" hollered John.

"Again?" Roy complained loudly.

"Gage, come back here!"

Hank noted the smiles the others exchanged. Marco surreptitiously gave the pot a few sprinkles of oregano. Roy shook his head but he was chuckling. Outside, John and Chet were doing something Hank forced himself not to check (otherwise, he’ll be obliged to do something). When the others turned to Hank, he merely grunted and flipped out his paper again.

"Chow better be on the table real soon," Hank said gruffly. As he heard the ladle hurriedly bang in the pot and the dishes hastily stacked, Hank indulged in a smile of his own.

 

"Anybody want to get some coffee?"

It was the second time Marco had asked. It was the fourth time Hank heard the question as they clustered by a corner of chairs in the waiting area.

Nurses, people waiting their turn and orderlies gave them nervous looks and wide berths as they passed. Hank knew what they looked like: some sitting, some standing, faces streaked with sweat and soot, dark blue jackets coated in a fine layer of white ash. He knew they reeked of smoke. He also knew none of his men cared.

It had been a fire in a five-story structure, in the middle of the evening with the Santa Ana winds howling like it was the Devil himself. It was a lethal combination that blew a one alarm into a three alarm within minutes. It took less time for Hank to read the rising smoke turning black and barking into his HT for everyone inside to clear out. Now.

Not everyone did.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hank spotted Dix over by the nurses' station, picking up the phone, talking in low hushed tones. She raised her eyes to meet Hank's. She sighed, shrugged and shook her head. No one was out of surgery yet.

"He was right in front of me."

Hank turned back to his men, to the one slumped forward in his seat, the one left behind, the one who kept quiet the whole ride over, slumped in the squad. Marco was driving because Squad 8 were the ones who had ridden in the ambulance and the partner wasn't, couldn't, shouldn't.

Hands, still gloved, held out as if to grab what only he could see. "He was right in front of me. I knew the building was going. We heard the handie talkie. We were clearing out." His Adam's apple bobbed. "I made sure he and the victim were ahead of me."

Hank wanted to drop a hand on a bowed shoulder, but he hasn't wanted anyone near him since he came out with his partner across his shoulders, staggering under the weight, one hand dragging the victim by the ankle. He fought Squad 8 when they tried to take over until Hank shouted at him to let go. And even then, his hands had curled and uncurled, still feeling the death grip he had on his partner as they hung over the fiery pit the collapsed floor created.

"You sure you guys don't want to get coffee? Or water?" Now Chet was trying to coax everybody but the downward tilt of his mustache betrayed just how little his heart was into it.

Hank thought about the dinner they had left unfinished back at the station. It was some sort of casserole everybody ribbed Mike about because he had fussed about how the carrots needed to be sliced. But it had been good, warm and solid food. Hank still had the taste of beef and creamy egg noodles in the back of his throat when the tones rang out. 

Now the taste has soured in his gut as he counted the heads. Hank eyed the wall clock. Should it normally take this long?

Someone upstairs must have taken pity on his men; their shift had ended fifteen minutes ago without another run. Their engine and squad were picked up by B shift from Rampart's parking lot. They had showed up in the waiting room; keys, quiet words of well wishes and logs were exchanged in the middle of the lobby with little ceremony.

Marco sank down in a nearby seat. He raised a hand as if to rest on the hunched back, but he stopped just inches from touching. 

"We should go get something to drink," Marco coaxed, "You ate a lot of smoke."

A head shake silently aborted the suggestion.

"...Johnny?"

Hank felt a cold lump in his gut when he spotted Joanne standing a few feet away. She held her purse in front of her like a shield. The flowery red-orange scarf she must have tried to wrap around her neck was hanging off her left shoulder. She looked scared. She looked very alone. Hank wished he had thought to call Edith as well.

With a flinch, the bowed posture straightened and John raised his now clear eyes. He looked past Hank and Chet standing in front of him. He rose to his feet. He smiled wearily.

"Hey, Joanne." 

Hank stepped aside to let John pass but he followed because he'd be damned if he was leaving John alone now. He had to shake his head at the others though when they looked like they wanted to do the same.

Joanne didn't acknowledge Hank verbally. Her eyes had flicked over him though. It was the curse of being Captain; when she spotted Hank, her eyes widened and the purse went closer, higher against her chest. She held up her purse over her heart, white knuckled, as she stared not at Hank, but at John. Her lower lip trembled.

"Roy. Is he...is he all right?"

John was nodding, the small tired-looking smile still on his face. "He's in surgery right now. The docs said Roy was looking good. His BP was..."

As John rattled off vitals like he was on the Biophone, he caught Joanne relaxing despite all the technical terms John was reciting. Her purse lowered and lowered until it rested against her hip as she listened to John talk about how Squad 8 told him how stable Roy's BP was on the way over. She had a hand on his forearm now, her head tipped towards John and it reminded Hank of how Roy would cant his head towards John, listening with a mixture of amusement and patience on his face. 

John's voice trailed off. Hank roused himself from his thoughts and saw Doctor Brackett approaching them, his green scrubs spotted with sweat. He pulled off his mask, exhaling and inhaling sharply a few turns as he nodded at the crowd suddenly around him.

"Roy's fine," Brackett said before he was bombarded with questions. He dropped a hand on Joanne's shoulder. "We can talk more about his injuries and recovery in my office later but I can tell you right now that Roy is going to recover without any lasting damage."

"The victim?" Joanne, to Hank's surprise, was the one who asked.

Brackett's face shadowed. "Didn't make it." To John, he asked, "Do we know why he started the fire in the first place?"

John shrugged one shoulder. His mouth was a white line on his soot-covered face. "We never got a chance to ask. He fought us all the way from the moment we found him cuffed to the standpipe."

With a sigh, Brackett shook his head. Hank could sympathize; sometimes he couldn't understand people either. 

"When can we see Roy?" Again, Joanne asked, not John. She clung to John's elbow.

"They'll be taking Roy up after Orthopedics sets his ankle but he'll still be groggy from the anesthesia."

Joanne glanced at John. "Oh good, then there's time."

Brackett's brows knitted. He looked over to Hank, but Hank could only shrug. "Time?"

With a nod towards John, Joanne sounded both relieved and exasperated. "For John to get his shoulder checked out."

Hank barely caught John when his knees buckled and he pitched forward, crashing into a startled Doctor Brackett.

 

The salty smell of Mike's fried chicken greeted Hank before the chorused "Cap" did when he entered the hospital room. He bit back a smile; apparently even in his checkered shirt and jacket, his men could still see the bugles on his collar. He noted Roy in his bed. He raised an eyebrow at John, who was about to raise a hand hello before remembering his formerly dislocated right upper arm was bound tightly to his chest.

"Is that what I think I smell?" Hank said by way of greeting back. He clapped his hands together, rubbing them as he hummed when he spotted the plates of golden chicken and a basket of biscuits on Roy's pullout table.

"B Shift ate all of Mike's casserole," Chet explained as he gnawed on a drumstick. 

"That's not necessarily a bad thing though," Roy quipped tiredly. He smiled at Mike's protest and it improved the pallor and tight lines around his mouth. He sat up with his leg set in a nest of pillows.

"John seemed to like the casserole," Hank pointed out. He made his way to stand between both beds. He eyed Roy then John. They were both looking a little better. He could feel a knot inside slowly unraveling.

"Gage eats anything," Chet grunted as he reached over and grabbed another drumstick. 

"Yeah, he even likes your fish stew, Chet," quipped Marco.

John made a face, disagreeing.

"You're hilarious, Marco." Chet snorted. He tossed a biscuit at Marco. He missed. It rolled to Mike's foot instead. Mike scowled at it and kicked it back to Chet. 

Hank folded his arms and considered the two on the bed. He cleared his throat.

"John? Roy? You two hungry? There's plenty."

John looked up pleadingly from his focus on the chicken. Roy grunted and leaned forward to roll the table towards John. He grimaced, his arm back around his ribs.

"I'll get it. I'll get it," John scolded Roy. He sat up higher. He winced as well. "Ouch."

Roy snorted. "He's been doing that all morning. Joanne dropped her purse before and he tried to reach for it before he remembered he was left-handed for the next week." He nodded towards Johnny. "That's why Doctor Early wrapped him up like a mummy."

"I can't believe Joanne ratted me out," Johnny grumbled. He eyed the chicken longingly.

Hank rolled his eyes. He toed Roy's table closer to John and dropped an empty plate on his lap. Eyebrow raised, he waited until John grabbed a piece. John grabbed two. He mumbled, "Thanks, Cap" around a huge bite. 

"Thanks, Cap." Roy grabbed a drumstick as well. He licked his fingers. "Mike, you outdid yourself. I—ah, ah, ah!" Roy glared at John. "What do you think you're doing?"

Hank patted John on his good shoulder, easing him back down on the bed. He waited until John stopped panting, his face returning to normal before he pulled his hand away.

"I forgot again." John flashed Mike a toothy grin when he came over with another plate. Mike must have fried up an entire poultry farm.

"Geez, Gage, maybe the doc should wrap you to the bed."

"I just wanted another piece." John picked up a piece of crunchy batter off his plate and popped it into his mouth. "It's better than what we got for breakfast." He screwed up his face and gestured towards his table where a covered tray lay.

"I didn't know oatmeal came in that color," Roy volunteered. 

Hank backed away from the tray, hands up. He didn't want to know. He sat down on the chair Chet vacated and balanced his plate of food. He could feel the tension across his shoulders unwinding. 

"Shoot," John licked his thumb clean of chicken juices. At this rate, Hank was tempted to ask the nurses for some bibs. He wiggled his fingers and tried to reach, again trying with his right arm towards the full plate on his pullout table.

"Ah, ah, ah!" the guys chorused before Roy could.

"All right! All right! I forgot! Sorry! Geez!"

"You sure you just dislocated your shoulder, and not your brain too, Gage?"

A chicken bone bounced off Chet's nose. It wasn't clear who threw it. He whipped his head around and glowered, but no one was talking. He grumbled under his breath and reached for the same dark piece John did.

"Hey!"

"I got to it first, Gage." Chet tugged at it. "Let go."

"Fine." John sank back into his bed.

"Oh," Roy said lightly, but his eyes were unsmiling, " _now_ you listen."

Hank narrowed his eyes. Suddenly, everyone was ravenous, heads down, chewing noisily. Someone burped. Someone else shushed him.

John, his appetite gone, lowered his piece. He picked at the chicken, tearing it off the bone and into shredded white strips onto his plate. "Roy..." He clenched his jaw. "I'm not gonna apologize for it."

Roy opened his mouth but what came out instead was a sigh. "No, you're not gonna. Just don't do it again."

"Sure thing, pally. You stop falling through floors and I'll stop trying to catch you." 

Mouth open again like a caught trout, Roy looked like he wanted to object but opted for grabbing another piece of chicken when Mike wordlessly offered.

"You know," John said around his food, "it would be a lot easier to hold on if you lay off the chicken, Roy." He yipped when a chicken bone from Roy bounced off his knee.

"Not everyone can be light on their feet, Galloping Greyhound," Chet called out.

"Chet, shut up."

Marco ducked as a biscuit aimed for Chet bounced off the wall. "Guys, I don't think Dix will be happy with the mess we're..."

Mike frowned. "Do you know how long it took to bake those..."

"Johnny, will you stop reaching for it? We'll get it for you."

"You keep giving me the smaller pieces!"

"Thought you wanted to be 'light' on your feet?"

"Gage, with the amount you're scarfing down, you can forget about being 'light'..."

Hank sat back in his chair, peeling apart a flaky white biscuit to sop up the juices on his plate. He ignored the growing ruckus. They would knock it off as soon as Dix came through that door; it was his day off after all. He blotted his plate with his biscuit and tore a piece off. As he chewed the buttery morsel, he studied the room.

One, two, three, four, five.

Hank grinned. He nodded to himself and reached for another piece of chicken.

**Author's Note:**

> We know Roy has a boy named Chris from season one's _Hang-Up_ , but there was no confirmation on age nor the name of Roy's little girl so I left it all vague. 
> 
> As always, this wouldn't have gotten done had it not been for my red pen, LdyAnne.
> 
> Feedback's like cookies. I _like_ cookies! LOL.


End file.
